


To Be Loved for the Fool That I Am

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Identity Porn, M/M, idiots to lovers, letter writing, they are STUPID and SOFT and IN LOVE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:01:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28486515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier part ways for the winter, but they keep in touch by writing letters. The only problem is, Jaskier is writing under his pseudonym Dandelion… and Geralt falls for the charade.A melodrama in several acts.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 42
Kudos: 411
Collections: The Witcher Secret Santa 2020





	To Be Loved for the Fool That I Am

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andrewminyards](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/gifts).



> I had a great time writing this for my secret santa giftee, [Stephanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards), who requested geraskier identity porn. I was inspired by Cyrano de Bergerac and the line that Cyrano "must be loved for the fool that he is to be truly loved at all."
> 
> Happy new year to all, and here's to a better 2021.
> 
> With many thanks to [Laura](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevalesofanduin) for beta reading!

Jaskier goes by many names. There’s Julian, the name his parents gave him, the name that still gets used in Lettenhove even though it sets his teeth on edge. There’s Viscount de Lettenhove, his formal title, which does have its uses in opening doors which might otherwise be closed to him. And of course there’s Jaskier, the name he chose for himself, bright and sunny and memorable.

And then there’s Dandelion, his nom de plume. It’s not that it’s a secret, not exactly. But when you’re a famous bard, there are expectations put on you. Your audience has certain standards that you need to meet. And sometimes he wants to write poetry as he used to, free and unencumbered, a pure expression of his experiences.

When he writes this kind of poetry, he publishes it under the pseudonym Dandelion. He’s free to be as saccharine or as maudlin as he wants to be. The words pour out of him, purple prose and sentimental verses, and although others in his profession might look down on this kind of work, there’s a grain of truth and honesty to everything he writes that he can’t bring himself to be ashamed of.

He doesn’t advertise it though. He quietly writes his verses, pouring out his fears and his longing and the feelings he has for a certain witcher who shall remain nameless. He sends them off to his publisher in Oxenfurt and uses the proceeds to sustain himself over the cold winters.

It’s a system that serves him well.

* * *

The days are getting shorter, and the nights colder. The leaves of the trees are a riot of colours: deep rich reds and bright shining orange. Soon, he and Geralt will part ways for the winter.

The thought brings a twist of melancholy, as it always does, but this is the rhythm of their relationship and by now it’s well familiar. He braces himself for their parting as they stop in a small town on the path to Oxenfurt to purchase supplies for the winter.

Jaskier treats himself to a fine new doublet and a bag of rich honeycakes to share with Geralt before they part. Geralt stocks up on potion ingredients and jerky for his long journey to Kaer Morhen. And, to Jaskier’s surprise, a small stack of books as well.

His surprise deepens when they stop to camp for the evening and he picks up the book on top of the stack. It’s a familiar, slim volume, bound in red leather with ostentatious gold lettering.

 _Verses of Love and Longing_ , it reads. _A collection by the poet Dandelion_.

Jaskier’s breath catches. A cold bead of sweat runs down the back of his neck. Does Geralt know he’s the author? Is he mocking him? Gods, has he read the poems and worked out they’re mostly about him? Will he send Jaskier away? Will he -

“Don’t laugh.” Geralt’s voice is gruff, and a tad defensive. He glares at Jaskier from across the camp. “I like poetry.”

Jaskier blinks. “You hate poetry.”

Geralt huffs. “That’s because most poetry is all fancy words and purposely obscure metaphors. But I like that poet. He’s…” Geralt tilts his head, considering. “… straightforward.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to argue, because accessible poetry is a good thing, actually, and the way Geralt stays _straightforward_ sounds as if he means _obvious_ , or _crass_ , and there’s no need to be dismissive, because someone worked hard on those poems -

And then he realises that Geralt is smiling. Geralt genuinely enjoys his poetry, apparently, and enough to purchase it in a volume. Could there be any higher compliment?

His mouth snaps shut.

“Don’t be jealous,” Geralt says with a teasing grin. “I’m sure your poetry is very fine as well. Not everyone can be a Dandelion, whoever he is.”

Jaskier’s chest puffs up. He should be smart. He should let this go. And yet -

“I know Dandelion, actually,” he says. It’s stupid, but it’s so rare that he gets the chance to impress Geralt. Just for once, he wants to show off in a way Geralt will appreciate. “Poetry’s a small world. We went to Oxenfurt together.”

“Really?” Geralt’s eyes widen. “Gosh.” He looks starstruck.

It’s horrendously adorable.

* * *

It takes only a few days for it to occur to Jaskier that he’s made a terrible mistake. They’re approaching Oxenfurt where Geralt will leave Jaskier for the winter, and he won’t stop going on about Dandelion.

_Will Dandelion be there this winter? Does Jaskier see him often? Could he introduce Geralt to him? He won’t be annoying, he’d just love the chance to meet the author of his favourite works._

It would be flattering if it weren’t so embarrassing. With each noncommittal answer he gives, Geralt only grows more curious.

He’s not going to let this drop.

* * *

“Essi, you have to help me!” Jaskier hisses.

They’ve just arrived in Oxenfurt and Geralt is stabling Roach. Jaskier has run to the lodgings of his dear college friend Essi, a talented bard and poet in her own right, and always willing to help him out in a pinch.

She smiles indulgently. “And what’ll I get from it?”

“You can… you can borrow one of my ballads for the bardic competition this year.”

“You know perfectly well I steal your songs for those tedious events in any case.”

“But this year you will have my blessing.”

She grins. “I suppose that will have to do. What do you need from me?”

“It’s. Uhh.” Jaskier feels his ears redden. “I need you to pretend to be Dandelion.”

She raises one exquisitely shaped eyebrow. “Your nom de plume for your most tasteless works? Why, for goodness sake?”

“I’ve got this friend, you see -”

She laughs. “It’s your witcher, isn’t it? Oh, darling, what trouble have you got yourself into now?”

“Nothing serious. Will you just pretend to be Dandelion? For one evening only? You know I adore you so.”

She swats at him. “You old charmer. Very well then, I’ll do you this favour. But later you’ll bring an excellent bottle of Est Est to my rooms, we’ll get very drunk, and you can tell me the whole story.”

Jaskier exhales. “Deal. Essi, dearest, you are my angel.”

* * *

Essi comes through for him – of course she does, she is the very best friend a man could wish for – and meets him and Geralt in a tavern. Jaskier introduces her as the author of the poems Geralt has so enjoyed, and he’s a little awed: Even less talkative than unusual, and more wide-eyed.

Fortunately Essi is pleasant to everyone, and she effortlessly chats away about poetry without ever being obtuse or academic. She’s been teaching verse for the last few terms, and Jaskier can see she’s good at it, laying out the principles in a way that anyone can understand, talking about how the really important part of poetry is how it makes you feel, not the formal rules.

It works well. Geralt relaxes and soon seems engaged, happy. He’s having a good time. It works… perhaps a little _too_ well. Jaskier sees the way Geralt looks at Essi as the night draws on, his eyes soft, the corner of his mouth turned up into a smile.

And Essi is a very beautiful and charming woman, of course, as well as a dear friend, but it makes something ugly and green twist in his chest to see Geralt give her those soft looks. That’s ridiculous, of course. He knows it’s not fair, especially as she is helping him out.

Still, he has to work to keep the smile on his face, and he’s relieved when Essi announces she will call it a night.

“Jaskier, darling, I’ll catch you at the faculty lounge?” Her blonde hair bounces in waves around her face.

He really is lucky to have her. “Without fail, my angel.” He kisses her cheek.

She turns to Geralt, who says, formally, “It was truly a pleasure to meet you, madame Dandelion.”

She laughs at that, her cheeks glowing. “Aren’t you a delight? I hope Jaskier brings you by again some time.”

He ducks his head. Anyone else would think him gruff, but Jaskier knows him better than that. He knows what that tiny smile means, and the way he doesn’t meet her eyes.

He _likes_ her.

Well, wasn’t that terrific?

* * *

It’s probably for the best that Geralt doesn’t stay in Oxenfurt long. He has to get to Kaer Morhen before the snows set in, he says, so he readies to leave the next morning.

Jaskier does his best to hide his sadness at the thought of going months without seeing him under a cheerful, blustery facade. If Geralt notices his false cheer, he tactfully doesn’t mention it.

“Oh.” Geralt stops as he’s packing away his things. “I have something for.. hmm.” He shuffles his feet, and Jaskier is stunned to realise he’s actually embarrassed.

“Here.” Geralt thrusts something into his hands. It’s a crisp, off-white envelope, and it feels oddly heavy. Jaskier blinks at it, mystified.

“It’s enchanted,” Geralt explains. “If you seal a letter in there, the letter will be transported to this envelope here.” He holds up an identical envelope pinched between his fingers.

“Like instant mail!” Jaskier is delighted. “How fun! So you can get letters while you’re at Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt nods, and it melts Jaskier’s heart a bit. Geralt wants to keep in touch. He wants to hear from him.

“I thought,” Geralt does that awkward shuffle again. “If you or… if Dandelion wanted to get in touch with me…”

 _Oh_. Something sour turns in his gut. Geralt doesn’t want to hear from him, obviously. He wants to hear from Essi.

“Of course, I’ll let her know.” Jaskier covers his feelings with his best broad smile. “I shall miss you, my dear witcher, until we meet again in spring!”

Geralt gives him an unreadable look. “Hmm.”

* * *

Jaskier does not pine. He _does not_. He is a busy man, with many calls upon his time. He spruces up his rooms at the Academy. He organises his teaching schedule for the winter. He sees friends and faculty, catching up on months’ worth of academic gossip and new compositions.

He doesn’t even _think_ about the stupid envelope.

The stupid envelope which is still sitting on his desk, exactly where he’d placed it the moment Geralt had left. The stupid envelope which he has been carefully tidying around, avoiding touching it or looking at it.

He sits on his sofa. He looks at the envelope.

He sighs.

He goes to see Essi.

* * *

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, you are a fool.”

This is not an entirely uncharacteristic assessment of him, coming from Essi.

“Geralt left the envelope for you, Essi, you should have it-”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t even know the man. Why should I want to write to him?”

Jaskier can think of several reasons. He begins to enumerate them but Essi talks over him.

“He left the envelope for Dandelion, didn’t he?”

Jaskier shuts his mouth. He nods.

“And you are Dandelion, are you not?”

He nods again, somewhat reluctantly.

“Then stop pouting and sighing and _you_ write to him, for pity’s sake.”

Her eyes hold a steely look which suggests arguing with her would be unwise. He slips the envelope back into his pocket and orders another round of ale for them both.

* * *

_~~Dear Geralt,~~ _

~~_My most darling witcher,_ ~~

~~_My one true love,_ ~~

~~~~_My dearest,_

_Already the time hangs heavy without you. Though it has been mere days since we were together, it feels that years have passed. For you have been a light in my darkness, and with you gone the days and nights have no delineation, without your presence to mark their passage._

The letter goes on in that vein. Jaskier squints at it and admits that it is, even by his generous standards, extraordinarily sappy.

It’s the sort of work he would be ashamed to admit is his, describing the emotions he spends all year trying to hide. It feels almost unspeakably freeing to write it down.

He’s not going to send it, of course. It just lifts something inside him to put the words down on the page, to see them finally in black and white.

He finishes it with the careful, neat lettering of his best quill pen, so different from his usual scratching in old journals on the road.

_Know that while we may be far apart, you continue to be close to my heart. I hope that my regard keeps you warm on chill days and my memory stays with you on cold nights. Though you may wander far, you carry the bond of my affection wherever you travel._

_Your poet,_

_Dandelion_

He lets out a breath. He folds the letter neatly, leaves it next to the envelope, and goes to bed.

* * *

He wakes late the next morning to the sound of Janie, the sweet elderly lady who cleans the faculty’s apartments, pottering away downstairs. He rubs a hand over woozy eyes and wanders down to the kitchen in search of breakfast.

Janie is attempting to tame the mound of papers on his desk. “Morning, Professor Pankratz!” she says cheerfully.

“Morning, angelic Janie,” he says with a yawn. “You’re looking even more fresh and youthful than last year.”

“Pff.” She waves a hand at him but her cheeks colour with pleasure.

Then Jaskier’s eyes go to the desk, and – oh no – the envelope sitting on it.

“Oh, I put your letter in the envelope for you, Professor,” she says kindly. “Didn’t want you to lose it.”

 _Please not that,_ Jaskier thinks to himself. _Please don’t say that sappy letter has actually been delivered to Geralt._ The idea is mortifying. Every mushy thought he’s ever had about Geralt, right there on the page. It’s cringe-worthy.

He hurries over and picks up the envelope but it’s too late. The letter is gone, and the envelope holds a faint smell of sulphur that indicates its magic has done its work.

* * *

It’ll be fine, he tells himself for the twentieth time that day. Geralt probably won’t even read the letter. Maybe the magic doesn’t work. Or he’ll think it’s a joke. Perhaps the twin envelope has been eaten by a bear on the way to Kaer Morhen.

Gods, would that mean _Geralt_ has been eaten by a bear as well? Because that’s the last thing he wants. But no, Geralt is a fearsome warrior and a skilled hunter. He could take a bear. He almost definitely has not been eaten by wildlife of any kind.

Perhaps the envelope has fallen into a snowdrift and been buried. Yes, that sounds reasonable.

It’ll be fine.

* * *

Jaskier is doing such a fine job of ignoring the cursed envelope that it takes him all of two seconds to notice when it suddenly plumpens with a quiet _whoosh_ sound and a puff of sulfur. He’s on his feet and tearing it open before he has time to think, and he’s astonished to find a letter enclosed within it.

A million possibilities unfurl in his mind, chief among which is that Geralt has written back to call him a creepy hack and to tell him to burn the magic envelope forthwith.

Very carefully, he unfolds the letter and lays it out on the desk.

 _Dear Dandelion_ , it begins in a crabbed hand. The lettering is small but carefully formed, like someone unpractised took pains to make it legible. _I hope this letter finds you well_.

 _Your letter to me was a most welcome surprise. I would never have expected or hoped for such kindness, especially from someone who must be as busy and in demand as you are. I feel honoured that you would share your beautiful words with me_.

It went on, stilted and formal and rather awkward, but deeply, deeply endearing. Geralt describes making the journey to Kaer Morhen and a rare breed of forktail he had spotted along the way. He talks of the cold in Kaedwen and how the rivers had frozen over early this year.

It was polite but impersonal, certainly nothing like the gushing purple prose Jaskier had sent to him. But Geralt had always been more reserved, and nothing in the letter suggested Jaskier’s outpouring had been unwelcome.

Near the end, a paragraph makes Jaskier’s heart skip a beat. _It was a great pleasure to visit Oxenfurt. I have often heard Jaskier talk of the town and his friends there, and it brought me gladness to see it for myself. Parting from Jaskier for the winter is always a sadness for me, and knowing he is among friends in a place where he is appreciated softens that. I hope you and he remain well._

Jaskier, ridiculously enough, feels tears welling in his eyes. That may well be the nicest thing Geralt has ever said about him.

Oh, he knows that Geralt cares in his own way. That his grousing and instance that they aren’t friends is just part of his gruff manner. But to see there, in letters on a page, Geralt saying that he is sad to part from him each year – it makes his heart twinge.

He sniffles, tells himself to pull it together, and reads the letter again with a watery smile.

* * *

After that, it seems only polite that he should write back to Geralt. Geralt had expressed an interest in Oxenfurt, so Jaskier writes about the hum of the city, the history of its most beautiful buildings, the people he sees coming and going. He tells a few anecdotes about the mischief that he and Essi got up to as students, leaving the details and pronouns carefully vague.

 _I miss you_ , he writes, and he feels like crying again. It’s so good to be able to say it, even if the circumstances aren’t completely honest. _I think about you often. I would like to show you the city, to take you to my favourite spots. You would look good by the river._

 _Perhaps one day_ , he writes.

Is that too forward? He scratches it out.

But no. He is not Jaskier, artless friend confessing an ugly, long-held secret. He is Dandelion, master of the romantic, unashamed poet and lover. _Perhaps one day_ , he writes again _, you will visit Oxenfurt again and allow me to share its best sights with you._

_We could sit beneath the willow trees on the bank of the river and share honeycakes from the bakery and wine from the winery. Such sweetness would be blessed to touch your lips._

He blushes as he writes but he doesn’t let himself be cowed. Geralt deserves to know how lovable he is, even if he’d never want to hear it from Jaskier.

* * *

In his next letter, Geralt is warmer, less stiff. _My brothers are teasing me something terrible_ , he writes. _They say that for once I am smiling all the time, like I have a secret. I think they might mean you._

He describes the other witchers he winters with: the warmth of Eskel, the wisdom of Vesemir, the brash snark of Lambert. Jaskier has heard these names in passing, and has tried to dig information about them out of Geralt without much success. To have them each described in turn feels like being let into a secret, being introduced to a previously hidden area of Geralt’s life.

_This week Vesemir is pickling the last of the vegetables for the winter and Eskel, Lambert and I are patching up the south western corner of the keep. The walls are old and crumbling and there is always much work to be done._

_It would be a brightness to have music and poetry in the keep. I am accustomed to the sound of Jaskier’s music, which I will admit I found tiresome at first, but I have grown to find great comfort in. I would never tell him so, but he plays beautifully and I even like his singing. Life is quieter without him in it._

Jaskier pauses for two seconds to be outraged at his music being called _tiresome_ before he breaks into a dopey smile. He knew Geralt liked his singing really. _Fillingless pie_ , indeed.

* * *

Jaskier finds himself heading to his classes with a spring in his step. Even the vacuous stares of the first year students as he explains the principles of harmony to them can’t put a damper on his fine mood.

The city is more beautiful than ever this year, it seems to him. The songs in the taverns sound less derivative and more joyful. The sweets from the market are more delicious. The river, he thinks, is particularly stunning.

He mentions this to Essi, who laughs at him and calls him a hopeless romantic.

He writes to Geralt about his students and about his life here. He mentions the new poems he is working on and includes a few short verses he thinks Geralt might like.

He can’t stop smiling as he writes.

* * *

His ears prick up the moment he hears the _floomp_ of a letter arriving in the envelope on his desk. It’s starting to become his favourite sound.

Geralt writes that Oxenfurt sounds lovely, and that he had once thought of Kaer Morhen as beautiful too, though in recent decades it had come to feel sad. _But_ , Geralt writes in scratchy letters that look shaky and almost shy, _I find the place more beautiful when I imagine showing it to you_.

Jaskier may or may not clutch the letter to his chest like a lovesick maiden at that point. There’s no one around to observe it and it’ll never be proven either way.

 _I showed some of your poems to Lambert_ , Geralt writes. _He said he prefers a lewd limerick, but he has no taste so that’s not a slight against your work_. _I think your words are lovely._

* * *

Jaskier sends back a poem especially for Lambert. It’s a five-line stanza which begins _There once was a mage from Narok_ , and he thinks it’s some of his finest work.

* * *

_Lambert says you’re alright_ , he receives in return. _That’s the highest of compliments coming from him_.

* * *

It’s not as if Jaskier is gaining any new information, exactly. Geralt writes about his life much the same way he talks about it, in vagaries and with the assumption that things are obvious and uninteresting. It’s not as if he’s getting lots of new details for songs, none of the rich specifics about witcher life and lore that he’d hoped for when they first started travelling together.

But the letters do feel intimate, in their way. He feels like he sees Geralt a little closer, a little sharper. Picks out features that he’d wondered about but been unsure of.

Geralt _does_ like nice things. He likes warm baths and tasty food and pretty poems. Jaskier has always suspected, but Geralt denies he has any need for such pleasures out loud.

And Geralt does like him, even more remarkably. He mentions _my bard Jaskier_ often – things he had mentioned and had quite forgotten about, Geralt remembers. His preferences and his escapades. Geralt even admits to _missing_ him, which is frankly astonishing.

He’d hoped that he made himself useful to Geralt, and that he eased life on the Path somewhat. He tried to patch him up after difficult contracts and to keep the coin flowing when there was a dry spell between jobs.

But he’d never really thought that Geralt could care for him in the same way he cared about him. He’d never believed he could be anything more to Geralt than an acceptable travelling companion.

Now, though… For the first time in a long time, Jaskier let himself hope. What if they could be more to each other than just someone to pass the time with?

* * *

The moment he lets himself hope is, inevitably, the moment he’s brought crashing back down to earth. He’s been writing letters to Geralt almost every day, their patter becoming more comfortable and familiar, the distance between them seeming smaller and smaller.

He’s been more and more openly flirtatious with Geralt, finally letting himself say the things he’s been keeping in for so long. And Geralt is responding, slowly, but showing a definite interest.

Jaskier can’t wait to read how Geralt replies to his latest flirtatious volley, until he actually sees the words on the page.

There’s a sweet introduction, some news from the keep, and then a sentence: _I should like to see you again, to gaze at your lovely blue eyes and fair hair and to bathe in your sweet scent._

It’s a little awkward but its meaning is clear. He’s thinking of blonde hair, wavy like Essi’s. A scent of raspberries and cream, Essi’s favourite perfume. Her laugh, her smile, her shapely figure.

It’s a stark reminder: This is not about him, and it never was. Geralt has been writing to Essi, thinking he’s opening himself to _her_ , not to Jaskier. Essi is the one Geralt wants, with her luscious blonde hair and those big beautiful eyes. And he can’t even be mad about that. Essi is gorgeous, and smart, and friendly, and far more worthy of affection than he is.

He collapses into the chair in front of his desk. It’s like the joy has been punched from his lungs.

Worse than the sadness, though, is the guilt that arises as he turns the situation over in his head. He hadn’t meant to deceive Geralt, not really, not like this. But when he looks at how this whole mess started, with his lying about Dandelion, and how he let it escalate with asking Essi to pose as him, and how he’s let it continue with the letters - he can’t deny the conclusion. He’s been acting abysmally.

He’s been deceiving Geralt horribly, and leading him on. He’s been so wrapped up in the pretence he’s allowed himself to overlook the truth that Geralt doesn’t want him and never has. If Geralt found out what he’s been doing, he’d be furious – and he’d have every right to be.

The guilt opens up like a pit in his stomach; a sick, nauseating feeling that sends him reeling. He shoves the letter under a pile of books and runs from the room, blinking back the tears which are welling in his eyes.

* * *

_~~I should have told you~~ _

~~_I’m sorry_ ~~

~~_There’s something you need to know_ ~~

Jaskier throws down his quill in disgust. He’s too much of a coward to even come clean. He can’t bear the thought of how angry Geralt will be.

Or, worse than that, how sad he’d be. He’d feel foolish and betrayed, embarrassed by showing vulnerability, and he’d clamp himself up even tighter than before. Jaskier can’t be the cause of that, he just can’t.

He looks at the empty envelope still sat on his desk, and he sighs.

* * *

He shan’t write to Geralt again, he decides. It’s for the best that he cuts off contact immediately.

So he tries to distract himself. He throws himself into his classes – he actually has some talented students this year, and there’s a girl who plays the harp who could really be something with some tutoring – and he gets back to his formal compositions.

He isn’t creating anything inspired, but he churns out a few verses. They’re all very clever and sophisticated, and they’re in the very latest style, but the words feel flat. The faculty eat them up, but there’s no heart to them.

When he hears the _fwoosh_ of a letter arriving downstairs, he tries to ignore it. He tries to tell himself he shouldn’t engage.

But it’s unusual for Geralt to write two letters in a row for no reason. Perhaps something has happened. He ought to check.

 _I do not mean to be a sap on your time,_ it reads _, so please forgive me if you are simply busy and unable to reply straight away. I do not mean to be demanding, and I understand you have many calls on you as a renowned poet._

_I hope that my last letter did not overstep any boundaries. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable._

_I had thought that you were engaging in flirtatious banter with me and that you might appreciate it if I offered you the same in return. But I fear from your silence that I have misread the situation. If so, I can only apologise._

_I appreciate your words and your friendship in any form you wish to offer it, with no expectations on my part._

It is signed from _Your friend, Geralt_.

Jaskier can feel how worried Geralt is, and his concern at having scared his Dandelion off. But that’s not it at all. It’s nothing Geralt has done wrong.

He needs to write him back, he realises, and he needs to set this right.

* * *

_What would you say_ , Jaskier writes eventually, _If I told you I’m not who you think I am?_

 _I’m not beautiful. I’m not elegant. I’m flawed and ugly, jealous and petty. I lie, and I lie more to cover my earlier lies, and I’m a coward when it comes to facing those I love_.

_Forget me. I will not trouble you again._

It’s as honest as he knows how to be.

* * *

When the reply arrives, he almost doesn’t look at it. He wants to ignore it, to put off the sick feeling of rejection for a little longer. But his curiosity outweighs his cowardice.

Time to rip the bandage off.

 _I have held off saying my full feelings until now,_ Geralt writes _, but I fear this may be my last chance, and so let me say what I can, and please forgive my lack of your eloquence:_

 _I’d say that makes you human_ , _and all the more lovely for it._

_Your words have touched me, and your kindness has been a light for me. If you were ugly, or flawed, as all of us are at times, I’d love you still. I love you better, now that I see you more clearly._

_Your imperfections are not a shameful thing to be hidden, they are part of you, and your humanity, and I am sure now that they are part of what builds your compassion and your understanding._

_I should not prefer you to be perfect, and still, and distant. I should prefer you close, and real, and messy, and mine. Flaws and all._

_If you want no further contact with me, I will respect that and never impose myself upon you again. But you will not have my forgiveness, for there is nothing to forgive._

* * *

Jaskier paces around the room, and then back the other way. Back and forth, back and forth, the words ringing in his ears. It’s everything he wants, and everything he can never have, because it’s all based on a lie.

He wears a hole in the carpet but in the end, he goes to Essi. If anyone can understand his predicament, it’s her.

“I’m being eaten apart by guilt!” He gestures dramatically. They are several bottles of Est Est down. “My torment is truly Tantalisean, being so close to what I want but unable to ever touch it.”

Essi rolls her eyes, which he thinks is an unkind reaction to the baring of his soul. “You’re an idiot,” she says, in a most unsympathetic tone.

“I know!” he cries. “Bad enough I was so stupid as to think I could get away with this deception. And yet more foolish to fall so soundly, knowing that I was setting myself up for failure. And yet, are we not all fools in love?”

She makes a noise like _pfffffft_ which he feels does not adequately recognise the poetry of his pain.

“No,” she says slowly, like she is talking to a particularly dense student, “You’re an idiot for all of this.” She gestures at him in a way that encompasses his entire being.

Jaskier thinks that this, although perhaps true, is rather unkind.

“He _loves_ you, for Melitele’s sake,” she continues, ignoring his anguished moans. “He wrote to you and _told you that he loves you_. You should be jumping for joy, not weeping into your wine.”

“But it’s not like that!” Jaskier protests. “He loves _you_ , not me. He’d never feel that way about me. I’m just,” his lower lip trembles, “I’m not the kind of person who’s loved.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Don’t you think you ought to let Geralt decide that for himself?”

* * *

Jaskier can’t bear to leave Geralt’s letter unacknowledged, so he sends back a simple missive: _I appreciate your words more than I can say. I have much to think on. I cannot in good conscience carry on our correspondence at this time, but know that I think of you often._

He doesn’t expect a reply – Geralt is too loath to impose himself on others to ignore such clear rebuffing – but still, it hurts stupidly to see the empty envelope day after day.

The worst of the snow has already passed, and the days are getting longer. The trees and plants of the city’s garden are beginning to perk up once again, looking forward to spring. And the people of Oxenfurt too are moving with more energy, preparing for warmer days to come.

For Jaskier, the arrival of spring brings the promise of joy and hope to see Geralt again, twinned with the pain and guilt of knowing what must be acknowledged between them. He longs and dreads to see his dear friend again in equal measure.

* * *

For all that he’s been obsessing over Geralt’s arrival, the event itself still takes him by surprise. He’s sat in a tavern swapping stories of the term’s worst students with Essi and a few other faculty members when he looks up to see a flash of white hair and dark armor passing by the window.

The shock must show on his face, because Essi lays a hand on his arm. “It’s okay, darling,” she says softly. “It’ll be all right.”

“You should go to him,” he says to her, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “He’ll want to see you.”

He can tell Essi is about to argue with him. But then she closes her mouth and tilts her head thoughtfully. “You know what,” she says, “I think you’re right.”

She stands, and he watches her leave with misery forming a hard lump in the pit of his stomach. She and Geralt will be very happy together, and it’ll be what they both deserve.

The idea of his two dearest friends being happy makes his stomach flip over, just to confirm that he truly is an awful person. He makes excuses to his colleagues and heads home at a brisk trot, fighting to keep the tears from his eyes.

* * *

Hours later, there’s a knock at his door.

He knows that knock, and he can tell from its heavy nature that he’s in trouble. Perhaps Geralt is coming by to tell him he doesn’t want him on his travels. Perhaps now he’ll be travelling with Essi instead. Perhaps he’s come to say goodbye. Or perhaps to lecture Jaskier for his duplicity and to give him one last punch in the stomach. It would be deserved.

Like a man going to his death, Jaskier goes to the door.

When he opens it, Geralt looks… awkward. Not angry, but not looking him in the eye either. His gaze is fixed on the lintel over Jaskier’s doorway.

Jaskier thinks of a million things and says nothing, dumbly. He stares. Seconds ticks by. Eventually Geralt asks, “May I come in?”

It’s like a spell has been lifted. “Right, yes! Of course. How rude of me. Please, Geralt, come in. It’s good to see you. I hope you had a good winter. Well, as good as can be expected what with all the snow and the cold-”

He’s rambling as he always does when he’s nervous. He gestures for him to come into the living room, still talking. Geralt is infuriatingly hard to read.

Geralt sits gingerly on the sofa like he’s afraid he might break it, and Jaskier settles on the edge on the desk.

“Jaskier,” he says, and there’s something in his tone which interrupts Jaskier’s rambling mid-flow. “I talked with Essi.”

That wrenching pain in his chest is back, but he tries to plaster on a smile to cover it. “Good for you. And for her. Isn’t that nice. I’m sure you’ll have a lovely time together.”

“I’m not…” Geralt’s voice is sharper. Jaskier peers at him. “Essi is a very charming woman.”

“Of course she is, charming and beautiful and intelligent, I can absolutely understand why you’d -”

 _“Jaskier_.” Geralt almost snaps, and Jaskier flinches. He doesn’t mean to, it’s just that he knows what’s coming, and maybe it’s cowardly but he just doesn’t want to hear recriminations about his character in those horribly clipped tones Geralt uses when he’s truly angry.

“Oh, no no no, I’m getting this all wrong.” Geralt is suddenly in front of him, and on his knees of all things, and he takes Jaskier’s hand in his own. Jaskier can only stare in bewilderment. “Essi is lovely, but she’s not the one I want. She’s not the one I fell in love with.”

Something horribly like hope rises in Jaskier’s chest and he pushes it down mercilessly. “But… the letters,” he says. “You were writing to her.”

Geralt actually snorts at him, still holding his hand. “Please. You think I wouldn’t recognise your style? How many dramatic readings of your poems have I had to sit through? It didn’t take me that long to figure out they were from you.”

“But…” Jaskier’s mind, usually his sharpest tool, was struggling to process this new information. “The things you wrote. The things about…” he struggles to get the word out, “… love.”

Geralt looks at the floor, and is he actually _blushing_? What in the world.

“It’s true,” he says, and the tips of his ears turn a lovely shade of pink. “I never quite knew – No, that’s not true. I did know, but I didn’t let myself think about it. In all the world, there’s only ever been one person who not only puts up with me all year, but even wants to hear from me in winter. There’s only ever been one person who I feel safe with, who I can let in. Who I can share things with, who I _want_ to share things with.” He finally looks up, and Jaskier’s breath catches. “It’s always been you, Jaskier.”

This is… that means…

The room spins. He can’t get enough air. Something yawning and vast rolls in his chest, his vision darkens, and the last thing he sees is Geralt’s face scrunched up in consternation.

* * *

“Jaskier.” He feels warm and cosy, and there are fingers carding softly through his hair. It’s a lovely dream. “Jaskier, it’s time to wake up.”

Slowly, reluctantly, he opens his eyes.

The room swims into view: His sitting room. His carpet beneath him. Geralt bent over him. His head resting in Geralt’s lap. Geralt’s fingers in his hair.

Everything is pleasantly fuzzy around the edges.

“What happened?”

Geralt smiles. “You fainted.”

Jaskier scoffs. “I do not faint.”

“Like a swooning maiden, I’m afraid. I gave you quite the shock.”

Jaskier remembers something important. He blinks rapidly. “You said you love me.”

Geralt gives him a look of fond indulgence, and _oh_ , yes, this. This exact look. The soft smudge of Geralt’s upturned lips. The twinkle in his eyes. The pinch of his brow, the halo of his hair. He already knows this is a look he will never forget for the rest of his life. “I did.”

Somewhat shakily, Jaskier sits up.

“Me?” he says, dumbly. “You love _me_?”

“It came as a surprise to me as well,” Geralt says, an amused tilt to his eyebrows.

“But the letters. The poetry.” He cringes at the thought of his most purple prose. “It was also so very _much_.”

Geralt shrugs one shoulder. “I don’t know much about art, but I do know honesty when I see it. And I appreciate that. I liked hearing about the world as you see it. I liked hearing about you.”

Jaskier feels his face turning crimson. “I’m a fool.”

Geralt grinned. “Yup. But there’s something Essi said to me – you have to be loved for the fool you are, to be truly loved at all.”

“She is very wise.”

Carefully, tentatively, he brings his hands up to cup Geralt’s cheeks. Geralt smiles at him softly. “I love you too, you know,” he says, to assuage any doubt.

Geralt raises a cheeky eyebrow. “I figured.”

He kisses him then, soft and exploratory, the briefest press of lips. Then Geralt’s arms are around his waist, pulling him in, and he’s in Geralt’s lap in a messy heap on the floor. Their kissing turns hot and desperate, years of longing finally bursting through to the surface.

Geralt eventually pulls away long enough to stand and sweep Jaskier up in his arms, and _oh_ , Jaskier could write rhapsodies about that.

Dandelion’s next book of poetry, he catches himself thinking, is going to be even more sappy.


End file.
